A pool of cold forest water. Dark
and clear. Remote slight muttering.
A rocking of breeze-waves (sinking,
rising). Underneath an arc
of pines. Beneath your eyelids.
Where images flicker, a fluttering
surf-susurrus (still moon-mooring).
A resin-resonance of prickly caryatids;
a pining. Moon of admonition
for rusted memories. Disfigured shield
harrowed by rain. Here testaments repeal
as shed leaves, unbound, tossed adrift -
when your absence sets a stream in motion
(veinous pressure bent against the bow).
This is where Siena circles now -
moat-silvered cloister, cryptic ocean,
subterranean corona (Diana's brow).
So, in the water, one's reflected frown
turns inside out. Hoofbeat, wing-flown,
up, down. Slow tidal undertow.
Perceive, Phoebe, how it branches free
(your tributary once, now sole initiative).
Follow down (dawn-star, inceptive
dreamer) time's wide-opening seraph
when she sets off in her flighty car
(a nation at heart) - a Frisbee
Sorcerer, or Hula-Loop - her teetery
peripeteia, perilous - your Mayan mare.
Bright gibbous moon in the sky tonight. Started Fontegaia, part 3.